Plotbunny Suicide Corner
by DarkIceAngelFlare
Summary: This is a collection of drabbles, poetry etc. etc. that I wrote for challenges and couldn't be bothered to put elsewhere. Ch1: Collab with HP Slash Luv. Ch2: Salazar Slytherin poem. Ch3: Collab with Team Slytherpuff - Harry Potter and the Power of Music.
1. Delusional Dream

**Pick a Card Challenge. Two of Diamonds: Write about being second best. Alternatively, write about Ron Weasley.**

**Ring of Fire/King's Cup Challenge. Prompt: "No, this is Patrick" (variable) and "Don't make me laugh". Collab with HP Slash Luv. Hers was the first part, so check her out!**

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><p><strong>Lame story is extremely lame. No plot. Just writing. Grrr... <strong>

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><p>Ron wasn't sure when he began to love Hermione. It might have been the moment when she had punched Malfoy, or that night of the Yuletide Ball or after she had set Snape on fire… The point was, there were many moments that Ron had always believed would culminate in him getting the girl.<p>

The same girl who was currently snogging their ex-Potions Professor.

"What the bloody hell is going?" he cried out, causing them to break apart. _Good, that's the way it should be!_

"Hi, Ron," Hermione said calmly.

"Don't 'hi, ron' me! Why is this creep kissing you?" he snapped, before turning his glare onto the former Death Eater. "Just because you escaped Azkaban doesn't mean you can't be brought in for other charges, Snape."

"Don't make me laugh," Severus replied coldly. "A threat from an Auror-in-training who only got in because he's the friend of the Boy-Who-Lived is hardly worth the oxygen it takes up."

"Severus," Hermione said, frowning, "just because I chose you doesn't mean you can be an ass to one of my friends."

"What do you mean? You chose him for what?" Ron asked bewilderedly.

"As dumb as ever, I see, Weasley."

"I chose Severus to be my lover," Hermione explained.

"But-but…" Ron stuttered. "What happened to that bloke you were dating?" He pointed at her gay co-worker.

Hermione sighed. "No, that's Patrick, a FRIEND. Really, why do you guys keep thinking that?"

"Because anything is more believable than Severus, even that guy!"

"I believe you have it wrong, Weasley," Severus sneered as he put his arm around Hermione. "Anything is more believable than you."

"I'll talk to you later, Ron," Hermione said as she was led away.

And Ron was suddenly alone, with the dream romance that would never bloom into reality.


	2. Emerald

**Ring of Fire/King's Cup Challenge. Prompt: Salazar Slytherin**

**Pick a Card Challenge. Four of Hearts: Write about a romance between the original creators of the houses.**

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><p><strong>Emerald<strong>

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><p>He was so much more than a snake<p>

But history painted him so.

Emerald suited him

It was the one thing they got right.

...

Emerald was the colour of death

Not black as some claimed.

A single curse, no blood spilt

Brought death to his family.

...

Emerald was the grass

That grew over empty graves

Of friends whose deaths went unnoticed.

Epithets of meaningless words.

...

Emerald was the tiny snake

He found when all was lost.

They never saw eye-to-eye

But loyal she remained, even after his end.

...

Emerald were her eyes

She who accepted his all.

One hand led him to light,

To a home in a castle with friends.

...

Emerald was the feeling inside him

When she introduced them.

_No…_

"This is Patrick"

...

Emerald was the night

He joined the stars.


	3. The Power of Music

**This was written for berryandlisa's Survivor Game, Team Slytherpuff, Immunity Round. Prompt: Write about Harry learning to play an instrument.**

**It's a collaboration with NeonDomino, TheSummerNightingale, firefly81 and Sociially-Diisoriiented. This might later be removed and replaced on the latter's profile.**

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><p>Remus sat down on the piano bench next to a decidedly sullen Harry. He was staring, somewhat unseeingly, at the piano keys. Remus sighed inwardly. He loved Harry like his own, but he wasn't in the mood to deal with a morose teenager. Especially since the full moon had been last night. But since he apparently was incapable of saying no to Sirius, here he was.<p>

"Harry. If you don't want to learn to play the piano, that's okay."

"No, no, I do. Sorry. What should I do?"

Remus nodded and proceeded to explain the different keys on the piano and the difference between the white and black. After about ten minutes of explaining, he asked Harry if he understood the placement of the keys. After confirming that he understood, Remus asked Harry to show him the C key. To which Harry just looked at him with a blank face.

"Okay, how about this? I'll play something easy and then you try to copy it."

Remus played chopsticks really slowly so Harry was able to follow. After he finished, he turned it over to Harry. Who went on to get it completely wrong.

"I'm hopeless, aren't I?

"Of course not, Harry. It takes much longer than a day to learn to play an instrument."

"Yeah, right!" Harry yelled as he stalked from the room, leaving Remus sitting on the piano bench wondering how the lesson went so bad so fast. Sirius owed him.

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><p>Harry spent the rest of the day as far from the third floor and its music room as possible. At least, he thought in relief, Remus wasn't going to force him to play any more. But apparently, Harry's brief, practically nonexistent exposure to music was not over, because not two days later, Harry found himself being ushered into the music room by Sirius himself.<p>

"I'm rubbish at piano," he emphatically informed the empty room as his godfather all but pushed him through the doorway. "I tried already, and I'm rubbish-"

"So am I. That's why I'm going to teach you a different instrument. Sit." As Harry refused and stood in the center of the room, Sirius reached behind the grand piano, saying, "I was so sure that piano would fit you. You have long fingers, like Remus, but I guess piano wasn't your forte - haha, get it? That's why I'm teaching you how to play-" his hand latched around a wooden neck and he pulled the dusty instrument into view "-the guitar."

Harry's eyes betrayed him as they curiously raked over the strings and wooden surface as Sirius waved his wand above the instrument to clear the dust. "Is it yours?"

"All mine," said Sirius proudly. "My idiot brother and parents didn't know I kept it here, which was probably why it hasn't been incinerated." He tapped the top strings and grinned as a deep sound echoed in the room. "Perfect condition."

He handed the guitar to Harry, whose arm involuntarily reached out to grab the instrument. "Sit down," he advised as the guitar swung like a pendulum in Harry's grip. "It's easier to hold."

Harry sat on the piano bench, heaving the guitar onto his leg. He lightly strummed the strings, and a jumbled chord played out. "Is that it?" he asked a bit hopefully, and strummed downward again.

Sirius laughed. "Not quite. You have to learn a few chords first." When Harry didn't protest (though he resumed his wary expression), his godfather guided his hand towards the strings. "I'll teach you the C chord."

With careful fingers and an uncharacteristic patience, Sirius instructed Harry how to play the chord by pushing down on the brass strings. Harry's fingers shook as he struggled to keep them in the strange position on the neck of the guitar, and when he strummed, an unearthly shriek cried out from the vibration of the strings. It was amplified by the vast emptiness of the room.

Sirius winced and said, "Er, yeah, try again, sometimes that happens. You just have to press a little harder-"

But Harry was shaking his head. He abruptly stood up and pushed the guitar into Sirius's lap. "Here. It's no use."

"Harry," said Sirius. Impatience lined his tone, and Harry knew that his godfather wasn't going to be as lenient as Lupin. He didn't understand that Harry needed to succeed. He needed to win, he needed to know he was capable - he didn't need to fail, and he didn't need to know that he needed to practice to make perfect. He needed strength to face what was coming for him.

The piano and guitar couldn't give him that.

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly as he turned towards the door. "I just - I should probably be doing my Charms homework right now."

He left the room without another word because he did not trust himself to keep the boiling anger that only increased its temperature with the throbbing in his left hand where he had pressed the guitar's strings. Harry was halfway down the corridor when he heard guitar chords from the room he had just left. They were quiet, muted by the half-closed door, and Harry found himself creeping back to the music room.

His godfather was plucking at the strings, and a bittersweet melody reached Harry's ears. He peered into the room and saw a forlorn expression on Sirius's face. Harry did not know how long he stood there, absorbing the tune and the melancholy mood, but he jolted back to reality as soon as the music stopped.

As Sirius got up to put the guitar back into place, Harry scampered back down the hallway and ran down the staircase, Sirius's melody playing louder in his head with every step.

And it was the strangest thing - as Harry walked into the drawing room and was bombarded with the sounds of sharp remarks from Mrs. Weasley, the noise of the twins teasing Ginny, and Hermione's passionate conversation with Mr. Weasley about Muggle objects, he couldn't help but feel as if the house was silent.

As if it was silent without Sirius's melody, without Remus's 'Chopsticks', without the sound of music.

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><p>Gently, a melody took to the air. It was light, filled with the promise of laughter. As a stream of notes flowed from careful fingertips, one could almost see the hours of practice that had gone into perfecting the song. The age-old symphony began to rise to a crescendo of even more delicate notes, until a discordant note was struck and it fell apart.<p>

There was silence, and then the practice song was changed for something raw, new, that ran on swift feet. An underlying note barked sporadically in between the higher notes. Harsh fingers scratched against strings, almost as if trying to make an impossible sound leap through the melody; as if searching for a harshness that could not be found within the instrument's scale; a howl that would echo and scream and die-

"Visitors are here to see Mr Harry Potter sir."

Harry's eyes opened and the images dancing in his mind retreated once again. Somehow, no matter what he did, he just could not turn the scenery in his mind to sound. His hands fell uselessly from the instrument.

"Thank you, Winky," he said quietly.

The faithful house elf pulled at her ears, worried that she had ruined his composition, but before she could even offer a suitable punishment, her master smiled warmly at her and bade her to lead him to the guests.

Winky almost didn't want to take her master to those vile humans who had brought the Potter household nothing but misery, but she had no choice. She fussed over him as long as she could, but eventually all the tea had been poured, the cushions plumped, the biscuits handed out and the fire sufficiently stoked. With a sad crack, she disapparated and left her master to face the firing squad alone.

"Well, Mr Potter, shall we get started?" asked one of the seated journalists.

Carefully hiding a grimace behind a smile and inwardly cursing Shacklebolt for making him the spokesperson for the Auror department, Harry began his monthly interview.

The usual questions came from the Daily Prophet reporter, who had finally conceded to writing notes by hand (no more Quick Quotes Quills, thank you very much).

"Was it true that the Malfoys had bribed the department to avoid Azkaban?" the unknown reporter began.

"No, and stop asking. The answer isn't going to change," Harry replied with a scowl.

"Why was the Wizengamot not taking a hardline stance against Pureblood families?"

"I am speaking for the Department of Magical Enforcement and can't answer that."

"But you're a part of the Wizengamot! "

"That's neither here nor there."

Blah, blah, blah… Harry knew the answers to such obvious questions by rote. Thankfully, the Daily Prophet's and the International Wizarding News' allotted seven questions were soon up and the Quibbler came to the fore.

Harry loved answering Luna's questions. They were the most unpredictable of all.

"What do you think of the depictions of magical creatures in the 'Pokemon' series?" she asked, staring at him with her large blue eyes.

"I think it will be passed off as a work of imagination and will boost the sales of Quibbler who have been writing about Jigglypuffs for years (to name but one)."

"Do you support the declarations made by certain members of the wizarding public that all those who participated in the Battle of Hogwarts should seek psychiatric treatment?"

'Oh, Luna,' Harry thought. 'You never cease to amaze me.'

"I dislike their method of phrasing," Harry said carefully. "They make it seem like we are one step away from madness, or suicide, or intense depression."

"But that's precisely what prompted it all! Students at Hogwarts had mental breakdowns and graduates from it have suffered meltdowns during work hours and the like!" interrupted the European Monthly Intrigue representative.

"I do not deny that there is a need for therapy, as many of us do suffer from PTSD, but the aggressive approach adopted by the public is counterproductive. It makes us feel lesser, as if something is wrong with us for feeling weak and for needing help! You cannot force someone into therapy and think that it will work. They need to decide to seek help on their own."

"But it is our duty to step in and do what's in everyone's best interest-"

"I believe that the floor is still mine," Luna said breezily, cutting into the European journalist's speech that had already gotten under Harry's skin. "Harry, you keep mentioning 'us' - does this mean you too undergo or underwent therapy?"

Harry hesitated slightly, then agreed.

The tension in the room rose significantly.

After that, the questions flowed readily, even from those who weren't allowed to speak. Finally, Harry had had enough and turned to the only reporter in the room with questions left to ask.

Luna smiled. "I'll ask two more questions: what specific type of therapy have you chosen and why?"

Harry bit his lip as he considered his answer. "I'm doing music therapy," he said finally, to the confusion of many in the room. "And as to why..."

In his mind's eye, he saw Remus bending over a piano, fingers swiftly skating over keys. A smile graced the werewolf's lips and a twinkle glimmered in his eyes, one that Harry saw less and less of as the war dragged on.

"Music is something I associate with many of the people I've lost in the war," he continued, voice shaking ever so slightly.

He could still see Sirius plucking his guitar, smiling even as his sad eyes echoed with pain and loss. Sometimes, usually when Remus joined him, the pain would fade and the melodies Sirius played would be happier, though never less intense. Everything Sirius had done, music or otherwise, came straight from his passionate heart.

"I don't like talking about them, but music therapy doesn't require it of me. I was never any good at it, at least in the beginning, though I am getting better. And even if I don't, I think that bad music can still heal hearts, if it's done joyfully."

Tonk's voice boldly resonated in his head, singing off key about unscrupulous men and barns, while Sirius and Remus laughed in the background. Then that bawdy drinking song faded, and instead he could see Dumbledore conducting the school song, humming tunelessly with a smile.

But only one voice sang the words. Fred Weasley shone brightly next to Dumbledore, singing the cheerful school anthem to the drawn out tune of a funeral march. The requiem rose and fell, died and was reborn.

"I thank you for your time," Harry said quietly, and walked away.

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><p>Harry didn't need an audience to hear him play. He had all the applause and commentary in his head, from those who had long departed.<p>

"Really, Harry, the harp? You realise it's a Pureblood instrument."

"He should give it a shot if he's interested. Teach him, Padfoot. You're the only one here who knows how to play it."

"Sorry, Prongslet, Moony, but no bloody way. I hated learning it and I don't want to teach you something half-heartedly."

"Well, I'm learning now, Snuffles," Harry murmured quietly, fingers resting lightly against the strings. Taking a deep breath, he slipped back into his memories and began to play again.

There was no rhyme nor reason to his playing. Instead, it was a flow of thought tinged with the love Harry still carried for all that he had lost. It was a song with Remus's patient chopsticks, with Sirius's passionate riffs, with Tonk's drunken cries, with Dumbledore's cheery hummings. And always, always, Fred's prophetic tune from Harry's first year, reminding him of the place of death he had once considered home.

The music faded. The song was complete. It was not yet polished up. It still needed fine-tuning, but that could wait.

It had been three and a half years since the Battle of Hogwarts and only now could Harry let out his tears.


End file.
